Ad Noctum: Chapter 6

Volker’s kidnapper and cat were still sleeping. That was nice. For them.

Chapter warnings: Stressors of all kinds. Violence. Injuries. Abduction. Anxiety. Panic. Purposefully insensitive discussion of mental health issues. Boundary problems. Manipulation. References to torture. References to suicide. Drug use. Death wishes. Indirect references to sexual assault. 

Text iteration: Midnight.

Additional notes: None.

Chapter 6

Telford had been true to his word and given Volker a good six hours before slipping into the darkness of their sleeping quarters and shaking Volker awake with a short, “Your watch.”

Before Volker was alert enough to respond, Telford pressed a torn piece of notebook paper into his hand, then climbed into the top berth with less than his usual grace.

Volker stumbled to his feet, fighting the mental sludge of an exhausted, coffee-less, morning-less “morning.” He clamped his fingers around the note in his hand. “He okay?”

Telford, face down on the bed, replied with a muffled, “Yeah.” He didn’t elaborate. Or shift position.

Made sense, given all conversation in the surveilled sleeping quarters was for show.

Volker staggered into the hallway. His skin was tacky with dried sweat. His hair smelled like smoke and rocket fuel, and after six hours in a bunk with crappy airflow, his sinuses were full of it. He’d gone two days without showering, not to mention he’d been sleeping in a leather outfit that wasn’t even his. Hopefully, it wouldn’t give him any diseases just from wearing it.

He unfolded the scrap of notebook paper in his hand.

Go to the bridge and pretend you understand what’s happening on the consoles. Stay there for a few minutes, then go sit with Rush. When he wakes up, remind him about the surveillance devices. Don’t let him do anything stupid.

Okay. Great.

Volker brushed his teeth and splashed water on his face to break the mental fog from too little sleep and too little caffeine. He considered a shower, but decided that a search for a towel, followed by figuring out how to use an alien shower, could take a long time.

Telford didn’t want Rush waking up alone.

Fine. No shower. Yet.

He squared his shoulders and walked onto the bridge. He set one hand casually on the back of a chair and let his eyes scan the monitors. He pretended he was in his lab, watching the data feed from the radio array. Between thoughts of phase calibration and RFI contamination, ideally some competence would filter through. When he’d examined each of the displays in the room, he turned and left the bridge.

He hit the door controls for the transport room and stepped inside.

Volker’s kidnapper and cat were still sleeping.

That was nice.

For them.

He dropped to the floor next to Rush, pulled his knees into his chest, and did his best to avoid being crushed beneath the hopelessness of his own situation. He was trapped on an alien ship, pretending to be something he wasn’t, and not even able to reliably read a darn console. Furthermore, he’d been demoted from his position as an independent scientific investigator—a tenured professor of astrophysics at Caltech—to, like, the Space Pirate Lab Manager of an eccentric egomaniac.

He rested his forehead against his knees.

He had complicated feelings about Rush that could mostly be summed up as “anger” versus “pity.” 

Telford, on the other hand, seemed like a straightforward, reasonable guy, except for the times when he was completely terrifying.

God. He didn’t trust either of them. Did they trust each other? Or themselves, for that matter? He didn’t know what they were doing or what they wanted or if they wanted the same thing or different things. He didn’t know if one or both of them had been brainwashed. He didn’t know anything.

He was going to die.

He tried to keep his breathing calm and measured. Tried to focus on the place where his forehead dug into his knees. 

Something he didn’t know would kill him.

Volker was sure of it. He was sure.

He had to try to save himself. He just wasn’t sure how.

Logical. Be logical.

Thinking clearly under pressure had always been a struggle. That was why he’d chosen radio astronomy rather than, like, nuclear physics. 

If he assumed that Telford and Rush hadn’t been serious about the whole threat-to-his-graduate-students thing, he could try to escape and make his way to some planet—

Seriously? ‘Some planet?’ This was his life now?

So he could make his way to some planet, then try to get by wherever he found himself, or he could stay with Rush and Telford, try to survive this situation, and possibly, possibly make it back to Earth if he were lucky and smart.

Volker sighed.

He didn’t want to risk the safety of his graduate students just to go on the run so he could reinvent himself as a psychotropic corn farmer, or whatever. Staying under the watchful eye of the Lucian Alliance wasn’t appealing either. If he stayed, he’d probably get tortured at some point, as that seemed to be kind of a standard thing for them.

Torture and Dale Volker wouldn’t mix well.

He stared at the dull gold floor, thinking of Nupur and Brian and Katie.

Fine. He’d stay.

It made sense, and had kind of always been his plan, but he felt better now that he’d laid it out and made a fake decision about it. Now, he needed a Way to Not Die. Maybe, like, multiple Ways to Not Die? He decided to start a mental list.

WAYS TO NOT DIE

1. Learn Goa’uld.
2. Learn Lucian Alliance customs, body language, and history.
3. Get in shape.
4. Learn to fight?
5. Learn to fly a spaceship?? 

It sounded pretty juvenile laid out like that, and it also brought to mind Luke Skywalker’s training montage from The Empire Strikes Back, but the bottom line was: all five items were technically achievable.

Working his list would be better than sitting in this gold tomb of a ship and waiting to be killed.

Volker glanced at Rush. The mathematician hadn’t so much as twitched while Volker had been staving off an early morning panic attack. It didn’t look like the man would be waking up any time soon.

Volker stood, crossed the hall, and entered the workroom. He scanned the books strewn on the table, wedged behind crates, and stacked on the floor. After a few minutes of searching, he found a cheap paperback that looked promising: Practical Goa’uld for the SGC Science Professional by Dr. Daniel Jackson.

This Dr. Jackson guy was everywhere.

He took the book and one of Rush’s small notebooks back to the transporter room.

Wait. The transport room. “Transport,” he whispered. “Transport, transport, transport.”

He sat down on the floor next to Rush and scanned the table of contents.

Chapter One—The Goa’uld Alphabet and Basic Grammar Rules

Chapter Two—Words That Will Save Your Life

Chapter Three—Phrases That Will Save Your Life

Chapter Four—Declensions, Conjugations, Adjectives

Chapter Five—Navigating the Starship Console: A Linguistic Perspective

Chapter Six—Numbers

Chapter Seven—Protocol and Vocabulary for Imprisonment and Hostage Scenarios

Chapter Eight—Directions

Chapter Nine—So You’re About to Be Made a Host

Chapter Ten—Bargaining.

And it went on like that. Well, at least it seemed like it would be useful. Volker flipped to the first page and began committing the alphabet to memory, testing himself by recopying it over and over in tiny, careful script into one of Rush’s notebooks. Once he felt he had it, he moved on to reading the grammar rules. He tried to make sense of them as best he could, but, really, the “Words That Will Save Your Life” chapter was burning a hole in his brain, so he skipped right to it.

He scanned down the list of words, covering English translations with one hand while trying to read the word in Goa’uld with the appropriate pronunciation, then recall its definition.

“Kree,” he whispered, then looked up at the ceiling. “Attend.”

How “kree” was supposed to save his life, he didn’t know. Maybe it was a common word? Maybe the Goa’uld were attending to things a lot? Ah, there was a footnote!

While “attend” is the most equivalent English translation for this word, as a choice, it errs on the formal side. Another acceptable translation of this word would be, “Hey.” As in, “Hey, I see you’re trespassing on this vessel, be prepared to die a needlessly painful death.”

Volker snorted a laugh, then moved to the next word.

“Arik,” he whispered. “I will not surrender.” He moved his hand aside, checking his work. Yep. Good.

“Kek,” he murmured. “I surrender. Also weakness.”

“Nok.” He bit his lip. “Stop?” He moved his hand to check himself. “Yep. Great.”

“Tal,” he whispered. He shut his eyes, trying to visualize the word.

“Death,” Rush murmured. “Also ‘power consumption.’ I suppose I see the connection.”

Volker’s eyes flew open. His hand came to his chest as he tried to calm his tight nerves. “Hi,” he breathed. “Sorry I woke you.”

Rush gave a listless hand flip, then pushed himself up, dislodging Mendelssohn in a slide of irritated cat.

Mendelssohn clung to Rush’s vest lining for as long as he could, but ended up on the vastly inferior floor blankets. The cat gave a disgruntled trill of disappointment.

“Oh what.” Rush glared at the cat.

“How are you feeling?” Volker asked.

Rush went to work on his vest buckles. “Fucked.”

“Oh.”

There was an awkward silence.

Volker tried not to look horrified.

Rush reseated his glasses, yanked a buckle tight, gave Volker a look of deep disdain, and said, “Met-a-phor-ic-al-ly,” with crisp, you’re-an-idiot elocution. 

“Well—hey. I mean—you were—um? I was concerned—”

“Not unreasonable. But stop talking.”

“Okay.”

Rush pulled his feet beneath him.

“Hey, so, David wanted you to stay here.”

Rush shot him a smoldering look. “Oh, on a first name basis with him now, are you?”

“Well, no—er, I mean, kinda? He calls me Dale, so—”

“Endlessly fuckin’ fascinatin’ as I find this, Dale,” Rush said, “I regret I cannot stay in this fuckin’ room for one more fucking second, so I will see you later. Enjoy the intellectual fruits of Dr. Daniel fucking Jackson, triple PhD.”

Rush pushed himself to his feet in a fluid and heroic display of uncoordinated resolve that ended with the mathematician on the floor in a sprinter’s crouch.

Volker ran a hand over Mendelssohn’s back. “Muscle relaxant still working, I guess.”

“Fuck. I’ll—”  Rush narrowed his eyes. “Muscle relaxant? What the fuck.”

“In Telford’s defense, you were NOT looking good.”

Rush tried to light Volker’s hair on fire with the power of his mind.

“Also,” Volker continued, “Telford wanted me to remind you about the surveillance devices on the bridge and in the sleeping quarters.”

“Yes.” Rush shook his hair out of his eyes. “I know.”

“Okay,” Volker said. “Great. Also, maybe you should consider just—y’know, taking it easy?”

“No,” Rush said breathily, “I’ll not be considering that.” The mathematician powered to his feet, settled his immaculately tailored coat across his shoulders, and strode only a little unsteadily toward the door.

Volker was pretty sure this was what he was supposed to be preventing.

He followed Rush to the bathroom, where the mathematician downed three glasses of water in quick succession, then stood with his hands braced against the gold bowl of the sink.

“Do you need—” Volker began.

“No.”

“Well, what are you—”

“No.”

Rush shut his eyes, either thinking about something or trying not to pass out—Volker wasn’t sure which. The guy looked stressed. He also looked like maybe he should be spending the day in bed with a book and a cat. Before Volker could suggest this, the man turned and shouldered past him, heading into the hallway.

Ow.

“Rush,” Volker hissed through a clamped-shut jaw, one hand clapped to his injured shoulder.

The mathematician didn’t so much as look back. He entered the workroom. Volker trailed after him.

Once the door shut, Rush faced Volker. The mathematician looked genuinely pleased and oddly formal, as though he might ask Volker to dance. “We have,” Rush said, bridging his fingertips, “an opportunity.”

“What, to read Telford’s email?” Volker muttered, still holding his shoulder.

“No.” Rush smirked, then spun and bent over an open laptop. “But points for attitude.”

Volker rolled his eyes, but came to stand at Rush’s side. The laptop showed a schematic of their ship. Three red dots pulsed ominously. One on the bridge, one in the sleeping quarters, and one, presumably Volker’s silver sphere, in the cargo bay.

“The surveillance devices?” Volker asked.

“Mmm hmm.” Rush zoomed in on the blueprints of the sleeping quarters, centering the red dot in the middle of the screen.

“I think,” Rush murmured, “this one is concealed behind the grating that covers the air circulator.”

“Okay, that’s useful how?” Volker asked.

“Oh.” Rush flashed him an I-love-the-smell-of-EM-surveillance-in-the-morning grin. “You’ll see.” He turned to the door.

Volker was hard on his heels. “Rush,” he hissed. “Rush, what are you going to do?”

“Such things are best left undiscussed,” Rush replied airily and hit the door controls.

“David said—”

“I don’t care.”

“But—”

“I. Don’t. Care.”

“Hey. HEY. What if we just look at the rasterized map—it’s done by now, right? Maybe we can find one of these naquadria planets. You know?” Volker started whispering furiously as he realized Rush was headed for the sleeping quarters. “Rush, do not go in there—just don’t—”

Rush favored him with a look that hit as an equal mix of arrogance and menace. “Stay here.”

“No,” Volker hissed. “Rush!”

The mathematician hit the door controls with cheerful verve.

Volker followed Rush as far as the doorway. He hovered in its frame, hoping he’d be invisible to the surveillance device concealed behind the grate.

Rush casually braced a boot against the lower bunk, closed a hand around Telford’s arm, tucked his fingers into Telford’s pants at the hip, and dragged the man out of the top berth.

They crashed to the floor.

So—yep, this was definitely what Telford had meant when he’d said, “Don’t let him do anything stupid.”

“What the fuck.” Telford, disoriented and half-awake, tried to untangle himself from Rush.

Rush, pinned on his back, drove an elbow into Telford’s eye.

What the heck?

“Do not ever,” Rush shouted, his voice ragged, his expression enraged, “do that again.” He brought a knee into Telford’s groin and used the other man’s instinctive recoil to wriggle free. 

Telford recovered quickly, plowing into Rush before the mathematician could get all the way to his feet. They hit the wall next to the door. Hard.

Volker flinched.

What the heck was going on? Was he supposed to get in there? His shoulder was still healing; he really didn’t want another round of stitches.

Rush elbowed Telford in the face like he was really enjoying himself. The mathematician took a beat to tangle his fingers in the grate of the air circulator, located just above his shoulder. When Telford staggered to his feet and hauled Rush away from the wall, the grating came with him.

Ohhhhh.

“Do what again, you goddamned—” Telford ducked as Rush swung the grating at his head.

The grate hit the wall hard, sounding a low and hollow tone.

Telford paused for a heartbeat, his eyes on the grate.

Again, Rush swung at Telford’s head, hard and fast.

Telford caught Rush’s wrist, stepped closer, shoved his shoulder—and then they were grappling on the ground, Rush pinned, Telford straddling his hips.

“You can’t fuckin’ drug me and expect—” Rush broke off as Telford closed his fingers around Rush’s wrist, lifted his hand, and slammed it back onto the deck.

The grate hit the floor with another hollow tone.

Rush didn’t let it go.

“You little—” Telford repeated the move, and again the grate hit the floor. “Fucking—” Again, the grate hit the floor. “Sociopath.” 

The fourth time was the charm. A small device on the back of the grate shattered into glittering fragments of gold, flakes of matte metal, and naked fiberoptics. 

Telford, still straddling Rush’s hips, drove the corner of the grate point-down into the largest remaining piece of the device. He paused, breathing hard. 

Rush, still pinned, came up on one elbow and opened a hand. He swept it in an elegant arc, taking in the shattered remains of the device, bleeding you’re-welcome energy into the air.

“You are a little fucking sociopath, you know,” Telford muttered, looking at the remains of the surveillance device.

“I know,” Rush said lazily.

Telford shut his eyes, pressed his lips together, and prayed for patience, probably.

“You look fatigued, David.” Rush exuded faux solicitude. “Why don’t you take a nap?”

Telford ignored Rush. He fixed Volker with an exhausted glare. “You’re doing a terrible job. Next time, use handcuffs.”

“Yeah, okay. You know what, you guys? I’m taking a shower.” Volker turned on his heel and headed for the bathroom without a backward glance.

The remainder of the morning and early afternoon passed in a haze of Goa’uld memorization. Volker was left to his own devices while Telford caught up on sleep and Rush lurked beyond the door that led to the engines. 

It was a relief to have a few hours to himself.

Every so often, Volker went to check the monitors on the bridge, just to show up on candid camera. By early afternoon, he’d reached Chapter Five in Dr. Jackson’s book, so the displays with their triangles and hieroglyphics were making more sense. It was hard to restrain himself when it came to examining the consoles, but he did his best to seem like he knew exactly what they said. Like he’d known his whole life.

Telford emerged around the time Volker hit the halfway mark in Chapter 6 of Jackson’s manual. He entered the workroom with a short nod at Volker.

“Hey,” Volker said.

Telford crossed the room and pulled a silver-wrapped Lucian Alliance meal from a crate along the wall. He sat across from Volker and opened the packaging with quiet efficiency. “Where’s Rush?”  

“Down by the engines, I think,” Volker said. “Not sure what he’s doing.” 

Telford nodded. 

They sat in silence. Telford tore into alien beef jerky. Volker silently quizzed himself on Goa’uld numbering conventions.

“How tall are you?” Telford asked. 

“What?”

“How tall are you?”

“Um, five foot eleven or so,” Volker said. “Why?”

“You need to try on one of my uniforms.”

“Your Air Force uniform?”

“Yes.” Telford tore open a small packet and dumped Space Pirate Trail Mix into his mouth.

“Why?” Volker asked.

“We gotta do a favor for Kiva.”

“We do her a favor and the Air Force takes the blame?”

“Yes.”

“And they’re okay with this? The Air Force, I mean?”

Telford toyed with empty silver packaging. “They understand deep-cover assignments may come with unavoidable collateral damage.”

“Is that what I am?” Volker asked quietly. “Collateral damage?”

Telford gave him a small, wry smile. “Not yet.” He rubbed the bruise darkening along his cheekbone. “Not yet.”

“So what are we supposed to be doing?” Volker asked.

“We’re making a hit on a tactical asset of the Second House.”

“Some LA-on-LA crime, eh? What kind of tactical asset?”

“It’s a facility manufacturing modified versions of F-302s—they’re Tau’ri fighter-jets capable of functioning in atmosphere and in vacuum. The plans were stolen from Earth. A fleet of F-302s would give the Second House an edge during an inter-House conflict.” Telford sighed. “We need to stay on Kiva’s good side.”

“Didn’t realize we were on her good side.”

“For now,” Telford said grimly, “I think we are. Maybe we can even stay there.” Telford folded crisp lines into empty silver packaging. “Assuming Rush doesn’t ruin our position on a whim.”

“Do you think he got…” Volker trailed off as Telford fixed him with an intent look. “Well, y’know. ‘Brainwashed’?”

“It would be almost impossible for us to tell. He’d probably figure it out before we did.”

“Yeah,” Volker said dully.

“But, for the little that it’s worth, I’d say no. He hasn’t been brainwashed.”

“Why no?”

“Because,” Telford said, “he hasn’t done what they want yet.”

“And when he does?”

“You don’t destroy a person who’s unlocked one of the greatest secrets in the history of intelligent life.”

“You sure they know that?”

“Yeah,” Telford said. “They know. Of course they know.” He rose from the table and stood next to the math-covered window, staring at the stars or the symbols.

“So what is it?” Volker asked quietly. “This secret he’s supposed to be unlocking?”

Telford traced a line of symbols with the tip of a finger. “He hasn’t told you?”

“No. The only thing we’ve really talked about is finding a planet packed with naquadria.”

Telford nodded and let his hand drop.

“Is that a big deal?” Volker asked. “I mean, he doesn’t seem like the most communicative guy. Maybe he just hasn’t gotten around to telling me about the big picture. There was kind of a ‘find a planet or die’ vibe around here yesterday.” Absently, he rubbed at his knife wound. The slow-knitting skin had started to itch.

Still, Telford didn’t turn or speak.

Volker got up and moved to stand beside him. “What’s he really working on?”

“Unlock the nine-chevron address.”

“A nine-chevron address?” Volker tried to remember how many chevrons it took to dial a stargate. Six points to define three intersecting lines and a point of origin. Seven. It usually took seven.

“There’s only one,” Telford said, backlit by streaked starlight. “No one knows where it goes or how to get the chevrons to lock. Each one is keyed to a different cypher.”

“And he’s cracking the cypher set?” Volker asked.

“As far as I know,” Telford said softly.

Fourteen hours later, Volker stood in the transport room, reviewing Chapter Three of Dr. Jackson’s book. He tried to focus on the phrases and pronunciation rather than how self-conscious he felt in Telford’s jacket and pants, which were just, uh, not quite right for his build?

“Hal mek,” he murmured. “Hold your fire.”

The door swished open and Rush strode in, an assault rifle balanced on his shoulder. The overall aesthetic was fairly impressive, but undercut by the fact that Rush, too, was wearing a uniform that didn’t fit him. The sleeves and pants had been passably pinned, but Telford had a good six inches on Rush, and it showed.

“How are you feeling?” Volker asked.

“Ona rak ja’do,” Rush sighed, and, while the words were dry, they carried an undertone of regret. 

“I’m only on Chapter Six.”  

Rush swiped the book from Volker’s hands.

“Hey, um, gal al’quel.”

“Mmm, not bad.” Rush ignored Volker’s request to return the book as he flipped through the manual. “Don’t separate the conjunction. It makes you sound like you’ve no idea what you’re doing.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“Do y’not understand it’s a uniformly bad idea to advertise that?”  

“Your uniform is a bad idea.”

Rush smirked and tossed the book back in a high arc. “I’m aware. But these things—” he paused, fingering the material of his collar, “—aren’t easily obtainable. For obvious reasons.”

“Yeah,” Volker said. “Wouldn’t want anyone masquerading as USAF personnel.”

The door swished open, revealing Telford, who looked maddeningly crisp and professional in his own perfectly fitted uniform.

“Indeed not.” Rush eyed Telford speculatively. “It’s bad for the wholesome and trustworthy image they unceasingly cultivate as they traipse through the galaxy in a hyper-technological haze of modern manifest destiny.”

“My ears are burning,” Telford said. “But I do not ‘traipse’.”

“I love it when you reassure me of your self-awareness,” Rush said silkily. “I so often have doubts.”

Telford rolled his eyes. “Sure.”

“Why don’t I have a rifle?” Volker asked.

“Do you know how to handle an assault rifle?” Telford asked, moving to stand within the circular cutout on the floor.

“No.”

“Do you want to shoot anyone?”

“No.”

“Would you shoot anyone?”

“In self-defense, I, uh, probably would?”

“I’ll believe that when I see it,” Telford said. “The rifles are for show. You want an actual weapon? Take this.” Telford tossed him a compact device of dark and sinuous metal. 

Volker almost fumbled the catch, but saved it. “What is it?”

“A zat’nik’tel,” Telford said.

“One more time?”

“A zat. One shot stuns, two shots kill, three shots disintegrate.”

Volker made a skeptical face.

“Propose a mechanism for that.” Rush examined the cuff of his uniform. “If you can.”

“Try to resist shooting Rush,” Telford said darkly. “It might sound fun, but it’s not worth it.”

“Your insults are so witty and well-constructed, David. That’ll be the finishing school I expect.”

Telford took a position in the center of the etching for the transport rings. “Shut up for ten seconds, will you?”

Volker strapped the alien sidearm to his thigh, imitating Telford’s setup. “Will we have to shoot anyone, do you think?”

“Probably,” Telford replied. “What are you two doing? Waiting for an engraved invitation?”

Volker stepped into the inlaid circle on the floor. He tucked Dr. Jackson’s book into a broad inner pocket of his jacket. It fit perfectly.

Rush casually adjusted his glasses, then sauntered over at a pace designed to irritate Telford.

“You have everything you need?” Telford asked as Rush took a position inside the etched circle.

“Who do y’think I am?” Rush asked, smooth and dark. “Fuckin’ Dale?”

“Thanks,” Volker said. “Let’s remember who abducted who here, okay?”

“It’s who abducted ‘whom,’ I believe,” Rush said. “Consider brushing up on the grammar of your native language along with the Goa’uld?”

“You’re a jerk,” Volker shot back. “Next simple mistake you make? I’m never going to let you hear the end of it.”

“You’ll be waiting a long fuckin’ time.” Rush examined his fingernails.

“I’m a patient guy,” Volker replied.

“I’m not,” Telford said pointedly. “You two done?”

“For now,” Rush purred.

With that, Telford activated the ring transport.

They rematerialized in near darkness, amidst massive, stacked containers. Dusky halations glowed around small lights that lined the perimeter of the ceiling, created by a fragrant, fine dust that smelled of sugared anise.

Already, Volker felt the urge to cough.

“Bloody fantastic,” Rush muttered, his face tipped toward the lights.

Telford stepped off the platform and ducked behind a large container. Rush shoved Volker after him, and they joined Telford. Near the floor, the air smelled cleaner. Volker’s eyes began to adjust to the low light.

Telford pulled out a handheld device and studied it. “Looks like Kiva’s intel was good,” he said softly. “Night shift is on. There are only a few people in the facility. This room is clear.”

“We should abort,” Rush said. “Modified F-302s aren’t the only thing being manufactured here.”

“You’re worried about the dust?” Telford asked. “We’ll be fine.”

“Baseless assertion.” Rush’s words were meant to land as dry, but they carried an anxiety that brought a sympathetic chill to Volker’s bones.

Telford heard it too. He looked at Rush, sharp in the darkness. “You think it’s affecting you?”

“I know it’s affecting me, David,” Rush whisper-hissed.

“What are we talking about?” Volker asked.

As usual, everyone ignored him.

“Okay.” Telford’s tone turned deliberately soothing. He grabbed Rush’s shoulder. “I get it. I do. This won’t take long. If everything goes well, you can light everything on fire on our way out. The whole place. I’ll help you.”

Rush readjusted his glasses in the dim light. “I don’t need help.”

“I know.” Telford shook his shoulder bracingly, then looked back down at the device he carried.

“What is this stuff?” Volker pointed up at the ceiling, where small lights illuminated the dust in the air.

“Either it’s kassa-derived, or it comes from another varietal of a psychotropic grain product. Nothing you want to inhale for any length of time.” Rush’s profile was mostly lost against the darkness in the shadow of the crates, but from the way the edges of his hair caught the light, Volker could tell that he was looking up at the lazy swirl of tiny air currents near the ceiling.

The dust shimmered, splitting the light into a range of muted, swirling pastels.

Volker tried to tear his eyes away from the shifting patterns, but it was difficult. “Why would it be affecting you but not David?”

“Drop it,” Telford said. “Time to move out.” He stood. Neither Rush nor Volker followed. 

The light was kaleidoscopically pretty. Swirling and fluxing. Was there current running through it, maybe? Bioluminescent friction?

Telford dropped into a crouch beside Volker. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“The light,” Volker whispered. “There’s something weird about it—it—”

He couldn’t look away, but in his peripheral vision he saw Telford angle his head, looking up at the patterns that formed and fractured and reformed, riding the dust as their medium. It almost had to be organic. 

“Time to go.” Telford closed a hand around Volker’s upper arm, hauled him to his feet, and shoved him at the door.

Volker braced himself against a storage container and looked back. Rush was getting the same treatment. As Telford pulled him to his feet, the drag of fingers on fabric and the scuff of boots over the floor erupted in fading flares of purple and gold.

Okay.

Volker blinked and shook his head, but the colors remained.

He forced himself toward the door. Every sound flared visually as it propagated through the air.

Telford entered a code, and the door slid open with a fantastic pulse of firebird red-orange against the darkness.

Beyond the door, the air was cleaner.

Telford led them a few paces down the hall, then ducked into an alcove occupied by a headless statue. He wedged Rush into the small space between the statue and the back wall. The sound of Rush’s jacket rubbing across a defaced cartouche triggered a halo of Scriabin red that spread from Rush’s shoulders over the concavity of the alcove like trapped wings.

Incredible.

“How affected are you?” Telford’s words tinged the air with shades of teal. 

Volker ached to hear music. A G chord. An F chord. A D minor chord. The Elektra chord. The mystic chord. He wanted to watch Bach, Vivaldi, the chamber music of Mozart.

Rush had a faraway look. His head was angled, as though he were listening to something.

Volker felt the deep cut of an inexplicable envy.

Telford pulled Rush’s glasses off. He handed them to Volker, who was too distracted to do anything but take them, marveling at the little topaz taps they made as the earpieces hit his fingertips.

“Rush.” Telford dropped lapis words into the small alcove, like an offering to its headless, fallen god. “I need an answer. How affected are you?”

“Not very.” Rush spoke in amber mist and forest green spark, electrostatically refined. “Would y’mind terribly if I asked you to back the fuck off?”

“Say that again,” Volker breathed a sunstone cloud threaded with webbed aquamarine.

“Back the fuck off,” Rush repeated, and it was wonderful. Lovely, even. The structured shine had musical bones, as though Rush was experimenting with tones Volker couldn’t hear and using the air as biofeedback.

“Back the fuck off.” Volker tried to lace the aquamarine web of his words with high energy sunstone.

It worked a little bit.

“Jesus Christ,” Telford muttered, little blue stones of words. “Are you guys high?”

“No,” Rush pedal-damped his own voice. 

“Definitely,” Volker replied, all sparkle. 

Rush used the wall for leverage and shoved Telford back. The sound and air disruption hit like a mist of silver-edged burgundy that suggested a ghostly flare of the mathematician’s Space Pirate coat around his ill-fitting Air Force uniform.

What the heck! That couldn’t be a coincidence. 

Rush looked at Volker and held out an imperious open palm.

Volker handed him his glasses.

Rush slid them into place with smoked topaz streaks through his hair. 

“Are you hearing things?” Telford demanded, the matte blue of his words understated relative to his tone. “Seeing things?”

“Hmm.” Rush made an equivocal hand gesture, then dragged his fingertips through the amber and charcoal mix the movement itself produced. “I’d describe it as a cross-sensory bleedover into what should be unimodal perceptual input.”

“Exactly,” Volker seconded, cracking the word into a radially symmetric aquamarine snowflake. “Kassa dust. Good for parties, less good for secret missions.”

Rush rolled his eyes. 

“Pull yourselves together,” Telford snapped with a match-scratch of muddy blue. 

“I’m perfectly fuckin’ focused, thanks,” Rush hissed. “He’s always like that.”

“Hey,” Volker said with a wounded shimmer of tropical blue. “Not cool.”

Telford looked from the device in his hand to the empty, dimly lit corridor. “Maybe we should abort.” His shoulders hunched, blue-gray. “This could be a set-up. This could be a test.”

Rush shrugged, and it hit like burgundy wine, swirling from his shoulders to his knees like a spectral frock coat. “What’s the worst that could happen? We all die horribly? Sounds like a normal fuckin’ Wednesday t’me.”

“You wanted to abort not ten minutes ago,” Telford shot back.

Rush shook his hair out of his face, sending streaks of dust-fine topaz into the dark. “Yes well. Turns out I like it here.”

“Me too,” Volker admitted. He scanned the hallway beyond the alcove. The air was shadowed and thick with color.

Telford hesitated, deciding. Then, “Do what I do,” he said. “And stay behind me.”

They passed through deserted golden hallways. Telford paused occasionally to disable security cameras with codes supplied by Kiva. As they advanced, Volker copied Telford’s stance and imitated the way his hands closed around his zat. He tried to mimic the restless way Telford’s eyes roved over the walls and down darkened corridors, but with a kaleidoscopic light show distracting him, it was tough. 

Rush walked beside Volker and made no effort to move with any stealth. His stride was casual as he waded through the nebula of color generated by the sound and vibration of their passage. He trailed his fingertips through the upper edges of the electric-veined pastel cloud, coaxing color into the cuffs of his borrowed uniform. 

They stopped at an intersection of four corridors.

Telford pocketed his handheld device. He held a finger to his lips, then motioned them behind him.

Volker nodded, wiping one palm, then the other, on the pants of his borrowed uniform. 

Rush gave a burgundy half-shrug and pulled out his zat. It uncoiled in his hand with a sinuous shine of green and brown, like a little river under sun.

Telford pointed at Rush, his jaw clenched. He formed his hand into a blade and swept it across his neck in a cut-it-out gesture.

Rush winked.

Telford exhaled, long and slow through his nose, both hands closed around his inactive zat. He looked at Volker.

Volker nodded.

They waited.

The air was a colorless silence.

In a graceful flow, Telford rounded the corner, activated his zat, and extended his arm at shoulder level. He brought his other hand beneath the zat as a brace, then sighted down the head of the serpent.

Volker was halfway through copying the stance when Telford started to fire. 

Into a group of people.

The color was a cacophony, shouts and scrambling and electrical discharges lit the room in glorious rainbow waves that formed, crested, broke, and came again, color piled on color piled on color. Volker was almost blind with it. He’d thought they were firing into another hallway, but this was a room with screens and seats. 

Telford advanced.

Volker stayed in his wake, near the wall.

Through a mist of colored sound, Volker took aim and fired at a man who had a weapon at his shoulder. He’d been sitting at a console, probably analyzing data. Oh god. He was down. Okay.

Volker looked for a second target, only to realize he already had one bearing down on him. A man built like a bull came barreling in from the side—

Rush stepped between Volker and the Second House soldier. He drove the butt of his rifle into the man’s face and sent him sprawling with a spectacular swirl of burgundy momentum. Rush flipped the gun, but the soldier recovered quickly. Before Rush could bring the rifle to bear, the soldier plowed into him and they crashed to the floor in a tangle of jewel tones.

No way could Volker get a clear shot with the zat.

He realized with a start that Telford had advanced deeper into the room, leaving Volker on his own. Exposed.

That didn’t seem good.

A speeding ribbon of color headed straight for him. Volker hurled himself to the floor. An energy blast sizzled overhead and dissipated in a mother-of-pearl flash on the gold wall behind him. 

Feet away, Rush hooked his fingers under the soldier’s jaw and wrenched his head sideways. He lunged from beneath the Second House operative, but the soldier hooked an arm around Rush’s hip and dragged him back. Rush snarled and arched his spine, cracking the back of his skull into the soldier’s face with an explosion of topaz and rose. The soldier grunted and reared back, but didn’t give up his grip on Rush’s hip.

Concussive blasts of color came from Telford’s zat, but the saturated haze in the room was fading. Fewer people were firing. Volker squinted into the opalescent heart of sonic density, the place Telford was approaching, advancing console-to-console.

Volker had a clear line?

And no one was paying any attention to him. Probably because he was lying on the floor like he’d been shot.

Volker fired.

Telford’s target collapsed in a retina-bleaching flare of rose-edged white.

Telford stunned another member of the Second House security force, then crossed to Volker and hauled him to his feet.

The only Second House soldier who was still conscious was the man grappling with Rush.

On closer inspection, Volker was pretty sure the grappling match was over.

The LA soldier straddled Rush’s hips, breathing hard, bleeding from the nose, and grinning. He ground a Space Pirate handgun into the soft skin beneath Rush’s jaw. “Shak’na kree,” he said.

“Shal’nok, asshole,” Rush hissed. “You’ll have to fuckin’ shoot me.”

“No problem.” The soldier’s gun whined with the lemon yellow of charging capacitors.

“Wait!” Telford said, his free hand open. “Wait.”

The soldier looked up at Telford and froze. 

Telford’s eyes widened.

“David?” The soldier shook wavy hair out of his eyes with a sun-warm smear of mahogany.

“Everett?” Telford asked in cobalt astonishment.

Volker’s thoughts, scattered by his first firefight and his first synesthetic experience, scrambled to catch up.

These two knew each other?

Rush locked his gaze on the leather-clad soldier. “Enchanted, I’m sure.” The words shone like wet rock under moonlight, backed by a watercolor haze of a British Isles palette.

The Second House soldier, oblivious to the multi-hued magic in the air, watched Telford. “What the hell?”

Telford didn’t speak. He seemed to be trying to impart information through gaze alone.

“So.” Rush siphoned the word into the puddle of color layering beneath him on the floor. “You two know one another? How fortunate.” 

“That’s enough.” The pale smoke of Telford’s words swirled above Rush’s miracle pool of color.

Volker shifted, shedding aquamarine he tried to turn a deeper blue. It went amethyst at its edges. He wanted to coax it into armor but wasn’t sure how.

“Everett.” The mathematician leaned into his accent, tapping the “r” and snapping the “t” despite the plasma weapon forcing his head back. “What an unusual name,” Rush breathed, “in this part of the galaxy.”

The soldier smiled, brief and bloody. He drove the gun into Rush’s jaw. “Sure. If you mispronounce it.” Body and word, he leaked solar energy—feldspar under sunlight, volcanic rock, the sea-green of flooded calderas.

Rush breathed a laugh, and his spectral coat wicked color from the pool on the floor. Its phantasmal burgundy deepened and accented itself with glints of amber at the cuffs and collar. “You don’t happen to have a surname, do you, Everett?”

“Nice try,” the soldier growled. “And nice uniform.” He eased the pressure on the gun and felt for the place on Rush’s sleeve where a USAF insignia patch had been torn away. He gave it a tug. “But you’re gonna need better intel to pose as Tau’ri, you classless son of a bitch.”

Rush bared his teeth in a feral smile. “Did y’just call me ‘classless,’ my love?” Spectral burgundy wound its way around Everett’s wrists, mingling with the soldier’s energetics, stealing warmth, reflecting it back in cooler tones. “That hurts.”

Volker didn’t understand what he was looking at—a fashion show of dust and light? A creative, interactive blend of Rush’s sensibilities with a random Second House soldier? Why bother?

Whim, maybe. But there was real artistry in the call-and-response color exchange. 

Telford stepped closer to the pair on the floor.

“Back off.” The soldier eyed Telford. “Or I kill this lunatic.”

“Oh, would you?” Rush asked breathily. “It’d solve a lot of problems.”

The soldier spared Rush a perplexed look, then studied Telford.

“Let him up,” Telford said. “And drop your weapon.”

The soldier clenched his jaw.

“Turn stubborn,” Telford said with the hint of a smile, “and I’ll have to kill you. I’d rather not do that.”

The soldier holstered his gun, then stood, creating a spectacular web of sundered color. Rush’s ghost coat shredded at its edges, then reknit itself in smoky lines.

Telford gave Rush a once-over. “Get out of here. Do your thing.”

“Oh no.” Rush settled himself, reconjuring his spectral coat in increasing detail, mixing a hue that hit as complementary to the soldier’s rock and garden signature. He propped himself on an elbow and crossed his feet at the ankles. “I’m quite interested in how this plays out, actually.”

“Are you hurt?” Telford asked.

“Not physically. He did call me classless, though.”

The soldier eyed Rush speculatively, his expression split between amusement and hostility.

Rush shook his hair back and quirked a suggestive eyebrow.

Volker kept his face neutral. This was turning weird, even by Rush’s own standards. Could he get up? Was the kassa dust affecting him beyond the synesthetic cross-sensory bleedover that Volker himself was experiencing?

“You know how to pick ‘em, David,” the soldier said.

“Get up,” Telford ordered, crisp with navy blue danger.

Slowly, languidly, Rush got to his feet, his eyes never leaving the Second House operative. He stepped straight up to the man. Inches separated them.

“Are you of the Second House, Everett?” Rush asked, recreating the sunlit-starlight color palette he’d been workshopping on the floor. “Or are you, possibly, of the United States Air Force?”

Everett didn’t answer.

Maybe it was the color dynamics that only Volker and Rush seemed to be able to see, but it was really starting to feel like Rush had the upper hand here. He was dragging the soldier’s sonic and vibrational signature into his own outfit while complementary and ethereal accents appeared on the soldier’s Space Pirate leather.

Volker squinted at them skeptically.

Delicately, Rush placed his fingertips against the soldier’s leather jacket.

Telford lunged for Rush. “Get out of here,” Telford hissed, dragging Rush back by the collar, pulling him out of the other man’s face. “You crazy fuck.” He shoved the mathematician in Volker’s direction.

Rush shook his hair back. Rallied. “What’s your surname?” he demanded, looking at the Second House soldier. He approached again and was shoved back by Telford again. “Tell me your surname.”

“I don’t have one, asshole. I’m Vrett. Second House. Who the hell are you?”

“He’s your worst nightmare.” Telford’s tone was pure ice. “Forget you ever saw him.” Telford shot Rush a murderous glare. “You. GO. Do what we came here to do.”

“And if I don’t?” Rush asked, his voice low.

“If you don’t, if you say so much as one more word aloud, I execute ’Vrett’ right here in this hallway.”

Rush stared at Telford with more naked hatred than Volker had ever seen on a human face.

Everett’s eyes flicked between Telford and Rush, his expression a neutral mask.

“Go.” Telford pointed at the door on the other side of the security station. “Now.”

Rush didn’t move. His ghost coat gained saturation, gained detail, pulling from no sound or vibration that Volker could detect.

“Go,” Telford demanded again. He pointed his zat at the soldier. “Or I will kill him.”

Volker asserted himself in a cloud of amethyst-edged aquamarine. “Come on.” He closed a hand around Rush’s upper arm and pulled him away from the showdown between Telford and Everett, or whoever he was. Their passage turned electric, with little amber and sunstone firefly sparks showering from the place where Volker gripped Rush’s arm. He pulled the mathematician through the door, then hit the door controls, shutting it behind them in a wave of mauve. 

The room beyond the door was cavernous. Husks of half-constructed ships hung from the ceiling in skeletal relief.

“Fuck,” Rush hissed as the door slid shut. He bent over, bracing his hands against his knees. “Fuck. That was him. That was him.”

“That was who? Why ‘fuck’?” Volker scanned the dark recesses of the room and the suspended shells of ships, hoping they were alone. “Thank god that guy didn’t shoot you, you complete weirdo.”

“How fuckin’ thick are you?” Rush’s coat lost definition. His face was the color of chalk. “Everett is from Earth. From Earth. He must be. If they know one another.”

Rush was hyperventilating.

“Are you okay?” Volker asked.

“Telford,” Rush hissed through clenched teeth, “outmaneuvered me.”

“Take some deep breaths, buddy,” Volker advised.

Through the thick glass of the small window he saw blurred outlines of Telford and the other man, talking over the barrel of Telford’s weapon. 

“You saw his face,” Rush gasped, still short on air. “He was fuckin’ shocked. They know each other. They know each other well.”

“But—”

“David never said our names. Did you notice that? And when it looked like I might say mine, he threatened to shoot the man. Fuckin’ think critically, Dale.”

“Oh. Yeah. Sorry to be distracted by my first psychotropic GUN FIGHT. Jerk.”

“Everett’s from Stargate Command. He’s probably an embedded operative. A high-level one if he knows Colonel Telford personally.”

“Does that matter?”

Rush’s breathing turned shallow. “I don’t think Stargate Command knows what happened to me. To you. They don’t fuckin’ know.” Rush sank to his knees, his hands in his hair.

Volker tried not to descend into sympathetic panic. If he couldn’t talk Rush down—

Well, he didn’t have any idea how to light a room of this size on fire, among other problems.

“You think Telford isn’t really working for the SGC?” Volker sounded shrill, even to himself. “You think he hasn’t told them about you? About the nine-chevron address? I thought this was a deep cover mission. I thought he was—”

“Well, if a ‘deep cover mission’ has no fuckin’ bottom,” Rush hissed, “and no fuckin’ end, then is it a deep cover mission? Or is it a defection?”

“Oh god,” Volker said. “Have you ever talked to anyone from Stargate Command?”

“No.” Rush looked up at him, his eyes wild and wet. “I was recruited by the Alliance. The Alliance. Do you understand?”

Volker tried to get a hold on himself, tried to think of something. “If ‘Everett’ is with the SGC,” he said, “if they know each other—Telford won’t kill him. Probably.”

“Probably not,” Rush whispered. “I fuckin’ hope not. I need him.”

“You ‘need’ him?”

“Yes. He’s my soulmate.”

Volker took a beat. Recalibrated. “Seems kinda sudden,” he offered.

Rush looked at him, still short on air and deeply offended. “I didn’t fuckin’ pick him. He’s been cosmically assigned.”

“Yeah, okay,” Volker said with a shimmer of sunstone. “That clarifies things.”

“Piss off.” Rush solidified his burgundy ghost coat with the energy of his words, and fixed Volker with a poisonous glare. “You’re useless.” 

“Thanks. Can we focus on something that might actually help? If Everett is part of the Air Force, he’ll presumably report to them at some point. We’re supposed to be burning this place down. Can we leave behind some kind of signal? Something associated with you?”

Rush’s breathing started to slow. His fading ghost coat wove pale detail into itself, and when he spoke, the words ran a silver embroidery around his cuffs and at the jacket’s edges. “A nonagon.”

“For the cyphers,” Volker replied. “But how do we construct it? How do we preserve it?”

“With fire,” Rush said.

“Uh, the fire that’s gonna burn everything down? I was thinking of maybe we leave a note?”

Rush shook his hair back. “So y’want to be tortured and brainwashed? This is LA territory. The Air Force may investigate what happened here if my cosmically assigned significant other piques their interest, but the LA Second House will certainly be running this down.”

“So what’s your incredible fire idea, then?” Volker asked, clipped and aquamarine.

“A nonagon of explosives and the same chemical accelerant I used at your lab and in your home. Maybe we’ll get lucky and the Air Force does some fire forensics.”

Volker huffed and tried to turn his own color signature into Napoleonic epaulettes.

It didn’t work.

“This is sounding like a long shot,” Volker said.

“Long shots are all we have, I’m afraid.” Rush paced toward the center of the room. He pulled blocks of deformable material from pockets in his borrowed uniform. “C4,” he said shortly.

“Oh. Explosives. Cool. Uh, how good are you at estimating arc lengths?” Volker asked.

“Better than you.” Rush tore the blocks into nine pieces and implanted a detonator in each. One by one, he handed Volker the blocks, and Volker found homes for each piece in the pockets of his own borrowed jacket.

Rush pulled a ball of line from another pocket. “You’ll run the perimeter.” He separated the end of the line and handed the free end to Volker. “This is a fuse. Not strictly necessary, but we’re going for artistry. I’ll tell you where to plant the blocks for even spacing. At the points I indicate, mold the block to the deck and embed the line to secure it.” Imperiously, he extended an arm.

Okay then.

Volker jogged toward the far wall in the direction Rush had pointed. A pale haze of aquamarine came off his clothes, but the air in this bay was cleaner. Maybe filtered, even, given the exposed interiors of half-constructed alien fighter jets.

When Volker reached the skeleton of a ship that looked an awful lot like an American fighter jet, Rush tugged on the fuse. Beneath the ship’s shadowy outline, Volker planted the first block of explosive, molded it to the floor, and used it to secure the line.

He stood, and started walking the arc length of a circle. 

Every time Rush jerked the line, Volker stopped and planted a charge.

They continued in this way until all nine blocks had been laid out in what looked to be a pretty darn accurate nonagon.

Rush approached Volker’s final position, rolling excess line as he came. His steps generated only faint strikes of color on the metal deck.

Hopefully the kassa dust was coming out of their systems.

Rush shoved the re-rolled ball of line into Volker’s hands. “Run it to the door and wait.” He pulled a flask out of his pocket and inverted it a few times.

Volker was feeling worse about this plan by the minute. “You really think a random guy you somehow decided is your soulmate is gonna pick up on pyrotechnic subtleties?” he demanded. “What about we carve ‘Nick Rush was here’ into the wall?”

“Focus on the salient, please.” Rush walked away, sprinkling rocket fuel as he went.

“You focus on the salient,” Volker muttered. Still out of breath from his jog around the room, he trailed the line back toward the door. 

When the room was laced with accelerant, when the air smelled of hydrocarbons, Rush rejoined Volker. The mathematician pulled a silver lighter from an inner pocket and spin-flicked a little flame to life. He watched it flare up and settle before kneeling to touch it to the fuse. It began a slow and theatrical burn across the vast darkness of the floor.

Rush spun the lighter closed and repocketed it. “Open the door,” he said.

Volker hit the door controls.

They didn’t respond.

He hit them again.

They still didn’t respond.

“Hmm,” Rush said. “Curious.”

His chest tight, Volker hit them a third time. Still no response.

“You want to—” Volker motioned at the door controls and stepped back.

With a wistful expression, Rush watched the little flame burn its way along the fuse. “Not particularly.”

“Not particularly!?” Volker echoed.

“This is a skill set y’really ought t’have.” Rush leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. His burgundy coat was gone. He was just a crazy person in an oversized Air Force uniform.

Volker watched in astonishment as the fuse continued to burn toward its target of deformable explosive. The room was large—but still—still.

“Rush,” he hissed. “I—” Volker tried to think of anything other than the progress of the little flame searing a line through his peripheral vision.

“Not a promising start.” With cheerful indolence, Rush covered his ears with both hands.

With an explosion that echoed deafeningly in the cavernous hangar, the first small block of C4 detonated in a shower of exploded F-302. Volker lost his balance and steadied himself on the wall, his vision tinged with red, his ears ringing. The accelerant nearest the explosion caught fire, and the flames began to spread. 

“Think critically,” Rush advised, watching the burning wreckage. 

“You are CRAZY,” Volker shouted in his face. “The last block is twenty feet from us!!”  

“I’d also advise thinking quickly,” Rush added.

“Rush. Stop being an asshole. Get us out of here.”

“I’m afraid you’ll need to do that.” Rush smiled faintly.

“What? Why me?”

“I’m not inclined to make the effort. It occurred to me that our pyrotechnic semiotics won’t go over their heads if accompanied by our corpses. They’ll be able to identify us by our DNA.”

“What!?”

“Did you know that DNA is an aperiodic crystal?” Rush asked, idly watching the flames. “I’d never thought about it as such. I wonder if I might learn to hear it.”

Volker—ears ringing, thoughts racing, hyperventilating—searched his mind for something—anything he’d learned that might help him.

Phi. The Golden Ratio. The mathematical ostentation that Rush had mentioned.

He looked at the keypad.

“I haven’t memorized all the numbers yet, Rush.” Volker’s voice cracked.

“Fair enough.” Rush tore his eyes from the fire. “An’ what would you like to type in?”

“16180339.”

“A good thought,” Rush said. “I doubt it will work here, given this facility isn’t Goa’uld in origin. Worth trying, all the same.” He rapidly keyed in the number sequence, only to have the door reject him.

Across the room, another small block of explosive went up in a colored haze of heat and light.

“I hate you,” Volker whispered, his voice cracking.

“Scintillating.” Rush watched the progressing conflagration consume the far side of the hangar. “But that won’t get you out of here.”

“What the heck are you trying to prove?” Volker hissed. “That you’re not afraid? That you’re tough?”

“I’m not trying to prove anything,” Rush said flatly, turning back to the fire. “You need experience with real stakes.”

“If I can’t do this—you’ll step in, right?”

“It’s unlikely.” Rush leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, watching the flames.

“If I can’t do this, you’ll stand here and let us burn to death!?” Volker shouted at him.

“That’s my current plan, yes,” Rush said quietly. “I said ‘real stakes,’ Volker.”

Volker took a breath.

Then another.

Then another.

He coughed.

Behind him, another small block of C4 added its contribution to the fire. 

The blood roared in his ears.

“Ask yourself what just happened.” Rush’s tone was conversational, almost friendly. “Why would the door be locked?”

Why. Why when it hadn’t been before—when—

If the door was sealed—they’d run out of oxygen. Bad for survival, good for fire-containment.

“A fire safety protocol.” Volker spoke through a haze of panic. “It’s for containment.”

“That’s likely.” The red-gold of the flames flickered in the frames of his glasses. “Triggered by what?”

“Maybe heat.” Volker felt sweat begin to trickle down his spine. “Maybe smoke. Maybe turbidity in the air. Maybe a drop in atmospheric oxygen.”

“All possible. Detected where?” Rush shut his eyes and covered his ears.

Another fragment of C4 went up.

“Anywhere. God. I don’t know,” Volker shouted over the ringing in his ears. “It could be anywhere. It doesn’t matter—wherever the sensors are? They’re routed to this door.”

“Hmm.” Rush pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and studied them speculatively.

Volker ran his fingers along the edges of the panel that housed the keys for the door control. He had to get inside this thing, somehow. He had to open it up and see its circuits. With a torn fingernail and a little shock of pain, he had it.

The panel clattered to the floor.

He was searching, searching, searching, visually searching. Nested circuits coiled around crystals—

Crystals? Great.

He wiped the sweat out of his eyes.

“Green are capacitor-equivalents.” Rush looked over his shoulder, the coolest thing in a room on fire. “Blue are diodes. Red are resistors, though, depending on their size and quantum configuration, they may double as processors. All of them are stolen. Repurposed by the Goa’uld and the Lucian Alliance and the Tau’ri and a thousand other races, most likely. Cigarette?”

Someone banged on the other side of the door. “Rush,” Telford shouted, his voice muted. “Rush!”

Rush shrugged at Telford, angled his head, and tapped one ear.

“God damn it,” Telford roared. His fist impacted the window, then he was gone.

The room was an oven. Volker’s eyes burned with sweat and the sting of thickening smoke.

Rush pulled his lighter out of his jacket, spun it through his fingers, then lit his cigarette.

Another block of C4 ignited, blasting them with a wave of hot air.

Volker narrowed his eyes, his fingers slowly tracing the rim of the opening he’d made in the door controls, looking for an input of any kind. Looking for the place where the sensor interfaced with the door controls. Where it must interface.

Volker’s fingertips passed over two tiny incoming wires.

He dug his nails beneath them and pulled them free. 

Rush pushed away from the wall and looked over his shoulder. “Good,” he said, surprised. “Power supply.” He coughed as he pointed to one component of the circuit. “Electronic strike.” He pointed to another component several centimeters away. “Bridge them to—” he coughed again, “—short out the locking mechanism.” He took another drag of his cigarette.

Bridge them.

Bridge them with what.

Volker wound the delicate sensor wire he’d disconnected around two fingers and yanked.

It came free.

He couldn’t stop coughing. It felt like there was no oxygen in the air. Maybe because there wasn’t.

Volker twisted his wire around the electronic strike mechanism.

His eyes were streaming.

He knocked it into position with a jacket sleeve.

Current arced, nothing more than a small snap.

Over the roar of the flames, he heard the locking mechanism of the door click open.

Rush lifted a congratulatory eyebrow, then began to pry the door away from the frame.

Volker joined him, his fingers scrabbling for purchase.

They levered the door wide enough to scrape through. Volker squirmed through the opening, the cool air from the corridor already easing the ache in his lungs. 

Rush didn’t follow.

Volker looked back, unwilling to re-cross the threshold of the forced-open door. He felt a wild fear that, if he did, Rush would seal him back inside. 

But Rush, his cigarette held delicately between his teeth, was bent over the open wall panel. He was removing its crystals. He eased each one free of its casing until he had a handful of multicolored shards, ranging in size from a fingernail to a guitar pick. When he’d freed them all, he pocketed them, then looked up at Volker.

Volker turned on his heel and headed back to the security station where Telford was bent over a bank of monitors, trying to open the door remotely. Like a normal person.

“Thank god,” Telford breathed when Volker came into view. 

Volker nodded, braced his hands on his knees, and tried to cough all the smoke out of his lungs.

“Nicely done.” Rush strolled up behind him, his footfalls turning burgundy again as they left the filtered air of the construction bay. 

Volker straightened up, curled his hand into a fist, and drove it into Rush’s jaw.

As aquamarine pain sparked through and from Volker’s knuckles, Rush hit the deck with a splash of misted wine and crushed topaz.

The mathematician laughed, and it was hysterical and helpless and unhinged. One hand at his temple, the other languidly dangling that cigarette, like Volker decking him was a hilarious punchline in an ongoing cosmic joke.

Before Volker could throw another punch, Telford dragged him back and shoved him toward a dark corridor. “Go,” he said. “I don’t care what he did. You go.”

An acid green alarm split the air.

Telford pulled Rush off the floor, tore the cigarette out of his hand, and crushed it beneath his boot. Together, the three of them sprinted back the way they’d come, through cloying air, full of color and kassa.

Back on the ring platform, Volker’s lungs ached.

Telford was about to activate their rings when Rush rasped, “Wait.”

Telford tensed, but Rush came up with a match, rather than a weapon.

The mathematician struck the stick on the heel of his boot, the scratch a spectrum of color. He flicked it in a flaming arc through the dust-filled darkness, where it landed atop an open bin of refined kassa.

The last thing Volker saw was a bright blaze as the rings descended.